


The lost siren

by GreenPhoenix



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannigram - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 12:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5785138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenPhoenix/pseuds/GreenPhoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post series, Hannibal loses his voice, but Will can still hear his every thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The lost siren

He lost his voice in the gentle waves. It didn’t dawn on him until he was saved from their embrace.  
On the boat he tried to speak but no words came.  
His partner spoke for him as they fetched a doctor.  
Not only did Hannibal lose his voice, he also lost a sense of being, and his memory of the last five years.  
His memory palace had cracks in the foyer and some of the rooms were decaying in their ruined splendor.   
Hannibal knew who and what he was, but he had no idea what he had done recently.  
Will Graham told him a strange, convoluted tale of their courtship. It involved death and obsessive love, and redemption. It all culminated in an orgasmic rebirth, bathed in the blood of an apex predator. Will showed him a scar he had made on his body with a knife.  
His smile, carved with cold metal and tears.  
“Each man kills the thing he loves,” said Will sadly, quoting Oscar Wilde’s words to Alfred Douglas from Reading Gaol. Bosie, the boy Wilde had lost his life for.  
Hannibal didn’t know if Will was his Bosie or his savior.  
Certainly Will was beautiful and when he saw him in the shower he drew the image in a notebook, the maenad given life by the gentle waves.  
Will saw the image and nodded. “You still have your art,” he said.  
Hannibal supposed Will did love him.

*

They moved to a small house in the French countryside. Will helped him cook, though it was mostly to keep him company. He could do that at least.  
Will also played him Bach and sat in silence, bathed by the wonders of sound.  
There was a piano and he played to Will, though Will’s musical tastes were more conventional in their nature.  
Will made no advances towards him, but his hands always lingered near Hannibal’s own.  
They shared a bed because it seemed natural.  
Sometimes Hannibal grew erect, and Will didn’t move towards him or shy away.  
Hannibal supposed his body retained some memory of Will’s presence being welcome and arousing.  
He craved the other man’s company.  
He clung to it like a drowning man to a raft.

*  
One day he simply pressed a kiss to Will’s lips.  
Will didn’t resist, but let him in and devoured his mouth.  
They fell into a deep embrace.  
When they drew apart, starved for oxygen, Will was crying.  
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m happy.”  
Hannibal stroked his hair.  
Words eluded him, but he wrote notes on paper and Will read him well.  
He knew Will was a savior, not a Bosie.

*  
That night Will didn’t pull away when he pulled his hands to his hard cock.  
He brought Hannibal to a very satisfying climax, and bit his shoulder, almost drawing blood.  
Will groaned as Hannibal sucked him, while looking like a vision.  
Will came, and he swallowed the salty essence of his love’s passion.  
Will whispered words of love.

*  
Not being able to speak deprived him of his ability to directly manipulate people.  
He used more indirect means instead, playing on their pity for him to get exactly what he wanted.  
Will gave him long-suffering looks, knowing what he was up to.  
Will, Hannibal supposed was his wife, someone who knew him well and yet loved him deeply.  
He spoke by playing his music, and cooking.  
Will saved a stray dog, and Hannibal knew it would soon have more company.

*  
He still didn’t speak, but Will provoked ecstatic sounds from him each night.  
That would suffice.  
He thought of some old enemies, but decided not to seek them out.  
Best to let the world think he was dead. But he had never felt more alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I'm a bit too hard on lord Alfred Douglas, but I'm team Robert Ross all the way. He was better for Oscar Wilde.


End file.
